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virtualcarrot · 5 years ago

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Rash Confessions

I prompted the light-hearted idea of Crowley being physically incapable of enduring affection on the Ace Omens server, just feeling faint and stumbling about at the slightest term of endearment because he’s a demon and he CAN’T. HANDLE. THE LOVE. Elmo improved it by saying Crowley was allergic to it, I didn’t catch on the fact that they were actually going to fill the prompt, so this happened except I took all the fun out of it and made it sEriOuS

(on AO3)

There’s a cozy teahouse somewhere in the City.

Well, there are multiple cozy teahouses all over London, some comfy in a tourist entrapment kind of way, others more genuine if dusty, but this specific one is where they’re seated, happy and relaxed and awaiting their order. It’s the one that matters.

It’s a few streets past St Dunstan-in-the-East. Crowley actually took his foot off the pedal as he drove past it just so he could spare a good look at the plot of the church he desecrated. He found it lush and green over the carefully maintained ruins, vines crawling up the walls just enough to add a casually romantic charm to it, the stone kept from harm by some judicious pruning of their most destructive tendrils. Aziraphale let out a small noncommittal hum at the sight. Crowley’s throat felt achy and he didn’t let them linger.

The first floor of the teahouse is devoid of any other customers, which suits them just fine. It’s dimly lit by poor artificial lighting, bathed in soft shadows that the French windows they’re seated at cannot quite make up for. Outside, the sky is surprisingly clear. The weather has this side of a chilly bite that makes burrowing into a safe, warm, comfy place all the more agreeable. Crowley feels pleasantly drowsy.

“This place is lovely,” Aziraphale murmurs, casting curious glances around, past the bare wooden beams, to the narrow staircase that creaked on their way up, and then over the old chipped ceiling, the fresco past the point of legibility.

It is lovely, indeed. Crowley feels the telling tightness on his skin that accompanies the feeling. At this point, he’s used to it. St Dustan itself already pulses a distant heat on the map of his mind’s eye. Across from him on the table, Aziraphale smolders like a reddening branding iron.

It’s worth it.

The waiter climbs up the steep stairs with a slight huff. It’s the kind of place with a carefully constructed family-establishment feel and student hires as a main workforce. She looks young enough for the part and sets their order in front of them with the overly careful gestures of someone who hasn’t yet gotten past the fear of spillage. A pretty fine china plate of scones follows, beside which she plunks down a small hourglass. Plastic, though that changes the moment her back is turned. It only takes a handwave. Aziraphale smiles bashfully at the sight, the apple of his cheeks tight with the effort of keeping his giddiness in check. They are pink, reddening more and more by the second.

When their eyes meet, Aziraphale’s smile doesn’t grow, cannot grow, too leashed back by a sense of propriety, but the corner of his lips curl upper still ever so slightly. They’re as pink as his cheeks. Crowley’s heart aches, as does the roof of his mouth. He wants so much his tongue feels heavy and thick with it.

The sand trickles down. Crowley doesn’t want to drink alone and his own coffee wouldn’t dare grow cold against his will, so he waits it out, too. The weight of Aziraphale’s grateful, knowing gaze in return is almost palpable.

Eventually, the tea is infused enough to pour. The place is so silent that the sound it makes as it splashes into the teacup echoes against the walls. Aziraphale takes a slow sip, closes his eyes with a sigh of contentment, and then reopens them like a flaring beacon radiating across the bay.

“This is marvellous,” he says softly, staring straight at Crowley. It’s really unfair that he so unfailingly catches his eyes even past the sunglasses.

Sweat beads up against the collar of Crowley’s jacket. He grunts something back and dips into his coffee. It’s dark and intense, with a delicate citrus-like tang and the discreet bitterness of a roast that may have gone on slightly too long. Overall, not unpleasant.

When he lowers his cup, Aziraphale’s right hand is just far enough on the table to count as a potential offering.

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley sneezes.

Crowley sneezes, and sneezes, and sneezes, and sneezes. Bolts up from his chair to try and get some space, but Aziraphale follows instantly, jittery like the idea of not doing so is unthinkable, and radiating concern and such unadulterated affection that Crowley actually trips on a chair on his way away from him.

Aziraphale crouches by his side, worry etched into every single line of his face. The hand he holds out to help Crowley up is as tantalizing as it is alarming.

“Don’t touch me!” Crowley croaks out. Aziraphale recoils like he would to a blow, and it would take Crowley’s breath away if it wasn’t so short and his chest so constricted already.

He hadn’t expected Aziraphale’s affection to be so open, so powerful, so overwhelming, and, really, how could it have been otherwise? Being overwhelmed by events was the story of Crowley’s life, after all, and single-minded focus the story of Aziraphale’s. “Just, give me a minute.”

One minute turns into many more, long enough that by the time Crowley staggers to his feet—on his own—the tea has gone cold in its cup, and the one in the teapot disappointingly lukewarm. As has Crowley’s decidedly unimpressed coffee. He still drinks it, half out of spite, after he drops down into his previously deserted seat. Aziraphale spares him a quick glance, but it’s clearly against his best wishes.

Irritation is good. Irritation won’t send Crowley’s demonic nature into nonsensical fits.

Aziraphale chews carefully on the rest of a scone and dabs his mouth with a napkin the teahouse never provided before he speaks. “Care to explain what happened?”

Crowley does not know where to start. There’s a way to put it delicately. A way that won’t send Aziraphale running for the hills of denial. This thing between them, it’s right there, just ripe enough to be offered to Crowley, ripe enough to bite into and feast upon, and he can’t have it yet but he wants it, wants it to the point of an ache so deep and so sharp it’s worth fighting the mere essence of his self. He doesn’t want it to be taken away. It’s his.

“I’m... a demon,” he starts, uncertain, giving out feelers and hoping against all hope for a hint of how best to steer this improvised confession.

“Yes, aardvark, I remember,” Aziraphale replies with affected demureness and an edge of sharpened steel underneath that’s so petulantly hostile Crowley finds himself wrestling with the urge to touch him. Just dart out a hand and graze the tip of his fingers to his face, the back of his hand, the halo of his hair.

He’s so taken with it he loses track of what he’s saying.

“Well... I’m allergic to, er, affection,” he blurts out, aware of the words that escape him only a beat too late to keep them in. But they’re out now, and sure to push away the one he most wants close. Still, instinct steered him towards a euphemism and he’s very thankful for that. He scrunches his eyes shut, as if that could avert the trainwreck of this discussion.

There’s a pause. Aziraphale shifts in his seat. “What?!”

He sounds too bewildered for anger or rash self-denial, so Crowley risks an eye open, and then the other. This conversation requires some adjustment; he crosses his arms and slowly sinks down in his seat until he can lean the back of his head against the backrest.

“I’m allergic to affection,” he repeats. “Or close enough. Demons, we’re not equipped to handle it. When it’s ours, it’s easier to manage—not that I’ve exactly had much chance to exchange notes on the subject Down There.” He gives Aziraphale a wry look. The angel’s eyes soften subtly in humor but his face remains stern, encouraging him to go on. So he does. “I guess because it’s already demonic. But when it comes from, er, outside sources, our essence fights it back. Like an infection. Or something,” he finishes lamely with a twirl of his hand.

Aziraphale downs the content of his teacup. From the smell of it, it’s no longer the smoky oolong that he ordered but something a lot more fermented and plenty more distilled.

“Any affection?” he asks, to which Crowley nods. “But I’ve always…” He starts, then cuts himself off with a haughty glare like he holds Crowley responsible that he came too close to saying more than he intended.

Feeling generous—and like he’s already got more than enough on his plate to deal with, which granted isn’t that much since, as someone who eats in small quantities, he can quickly be overwhelmed by too many over-filled dishes, and that’s how well that metaphor works—Crowley doesn’t push him. “It’s, you know, the boiled frog. Thing.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but do go on.”

That arched judgemental brow on Aziraphale’s face has no right being as attractive as it is. It’s very distracting, is what it is, but Crowley soldiers on.

“More often than not, it didn’t register. Not really. It came in small quantities and increased slowly over time.” By which he meant millennia. Millennia of self-restraint. Sure, Aziraphale slipped here and there occasionally, but the Englishmen had nothing on him when it came to ingrained denial. “I guess I got used to it. But now…”

Now that things have changed, he doesn’t say, now you’re free from Heaven’s influence and I’m free from Hell’s governance, now you’ve allowed yourself to feel this, now you’ve set it loose, that’s another thing. And it should be so heady, so satisfying, to be loved with even a fraction of this intensity, but mostly, it makes Crowley want to tear at his hair and scream when he’s alone, and flop down onto the ground and lie there when Aziraphale is near.

“Oh Crowley, why didn’t you say so?”

Crowley wants to answer, he really does, but then a wave of tenderness sweeps over him and he winces at the itch of it. He’s not discreet about it either, can’t even begin to downplay it. Aziraphale catches it and his gaze becomes shuttered at the sight. The way he reigns it all in is like a physical pull that leaves Crowley swaying in relief and gritting his teeth in yearning at the same time. He wants it. It is his to have, darn it all.

And what the heck, in for a penny, as they say—

“I want it, Aziraphale. Anything you can give me, anything you want to give me, I want it, too. And I’ll match it, don’t think I won’t. We have an Arrangement, after all. Balanced in all ways.” He offers Aziraphale a smile, one that’s small, yes, but not weak. It’s toothy, and it’s bold, and it’s honest. Fierce.

The angel smiles back briefly, unhappily. The curve of it is wistful. “It’s hurting you, Crowley.”

“Yeah, well… How do you think the opposite feels, angel? The lack of it?” Crowley rubs the back of his neck. “Terribly unpleasant, let me tell you.”

They share a look. Aziraphale brings his hands to his lap where he tugs at the bottom of his waistcoat, then lifts them back to the table when he realizes. His already perfect posture takes on a martial quality, his back straight and his head held high.

“So what now?” he asks. His eyes are sure and his jaw is set, waiting for the axe to drop. He’s so brave. And so close. It’d take so little to reach out for him and just touch.

Crowley throws his hands out with a flourish. “Desensitization. Exposure therapy. We’ll boil this frog. I know it works, we’ve been doing it for—” Millennia, he doesn’t say, doesn’t want to give too much away. He needs to keep some sort of dignity after all. “—ages. It’s just, going from utter repression to open affection, that was…”

He trails off with a pointed look, and Aziraphale bristles in that tetchy way of his when he feels he’s being made to take on unfair blame. This time, the swelling in Crowley's chest has nothing to do with any sort of metaphysical struggle and everything to do with being overfilled with his own adoration.

The angel snaps. “I couldn’t very well have known, after all, you didn’t tell me!”

“Well, I just did! So there!” Crowley retorts, because Aziraphale doesn’t have a monopoly on petulance.

They stare, neither one willing to look away. The air of the room is thick with tension and it’s ridiculous, they’re ridiculous. They’re so ridiculous they just have to laugh at it. Crowley’s face aches with the grin that overtakes it, and Aziraphale wipes away a few tears that aren’t all entirely due to laughter, but enough.

“Come on,” Crowley says softly, pushing his chair back in order to get up. “Let’s ask for another serving. I know how much you dislike miracle-heated tea.”

“Ah, yes, very well,” Aziraphale agrees happily before adding in a purposeful mutter: “I still don’t see what frogs have to do with this.”

Such fondness should not be allowed to exist in a lone entity. Crowley rolls his eyes in equal parts at Aziraphale and his own self and goes to knock on the wooden panels of the stairwell.

“Hey Miss! We’d like to order something else!” he shouts. It doesn’t matter whether she hears him or not; she’s close enough that the invocation he’s weaving will reach her. The choice whether to comply is hers alone but she seemed professional enough that he doesn’t doubt she’ll show up soon.

The wood is at once smooth and rough under his hand, polished by time and creased by the same. He presses a nail into one of the gouges, hesitates, decides. The carpet scrunches audibly as he detours to the angel’s side instead of going back to his own seat. Aziraphale looks up at him with open curiosity, a small furrow of concern still weighing his brows but his eyes clear and soft. They’ve overcome worse odds. His hands are on the table by the plate of scones, one playing with the edges of his napkin.

It’s the right one.

Crowley doesn’t think, but even if he had, it wouldn’t have changed anything. He cradles the hand in his, delicately, and lifts it to his face at the same time as he bends. They meet halfway. The skin is warm and dry against the lips that he presses there, oh so earnestly, a bit desperately, fully hopeful.

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes out, stunned. Emotions rush to the surface of his mind, disrupt the calm mirror of it, gleaming scales reflecting sunshine just below the line that draws the border between the privacy of the pond and the exposure to the outside world. He feels himself boiling over, overcome; shudders against the strains of keeping it all in.

This is an uphill battle he cannot win, not without Crowley’s help, and the demon is very set on being as unhelpful as he can possibly be. It's exasperating, truly, but that's not enough to counter the satisfaction of Crowley’s lean hand wrapped around Aziraphale's plump fingers, demonic thumb caressing the back of his hand over the lingering tingling of that too-brief kiss. He's happy, is the thing, and Crowley's such a stubborn creature, really, there’s only so much Aziraphale can do.

Fondness spills out of him in waves past the cracked dam of his will, that Crowley was expecting, that Crowley was prompting, and who rides them out with a vindictive grin, hand in the angel’s hand to keep himself anchored against the tide until it recedes. It itches and burns like the rash Crowley’s body once dared to experience early on in his stay on Earth, before it remembered itself. Crowley could not care any less. It's his to have.

He loves you, he thinks to himself. Feel how he loves you.

“See, this time it went better,” he points out a tad smugly.

Aziraphale shakes his head, charmed against his better judgement. “You silly—” he starts saying, voice tight with relief, then halts. There are storms in his eyes, whirlwinds of emotions, and still he smiles, brimming with affection, shoulders wriggling with it. He squeezes Crowley’s hand, presses it to his cheek and then lets go.

The waitress finds them seated in a perfect scene of propriety a few moments later. And if Crowley has darker patches of color on his skin that she doesn’t recall from earlier that afternoon, well, who is she to judge? Dermatitis is sure to have made her own teenage years awfully awkward, and her acne probably still flares up at the most inconvenient times when she gets too overwhelmed.

“We’ll have another of everything,” Crowley says, artfully slouched in his chair.

“Again?” she asks, eyeing the almost full teapot of cold tea and the half-drunk coffee. “Did you not enjoy—?”

Ever so polite, Aziraphale beams up at her reassuringly. “Oh no, my dear, it was absolutely lovely, but I’m afraid we got distracted,” he admits. His next words, when he speaks them, are aimed at Crowley, who feels his posture go even more limp as he basks in the knowledge of the angel’s devotion, no matter how leashed.

“But that’s alright,” Aziraphale says. “We have all the time in the world.”

(beta read by Elmo, any remaining mistakes are mine; title by @goodduckingomens because it’s a pun so of course it is; thanks for the existence of the Ace Omens discord which is both a blessing and a curse of Enablement)

#fanfic : Good Omens #good omens #my scrawl #ineffable partners #just figuring out how to manage their ethereal and occult natures

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ineffable-endearments · 5 years ago

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After the wall, against the pillar

(AO3 link is in the comments!)

***

Crowley is lost in thought, restlessly sipping wine and eyeing the patterns on the rug, when Aziraphale taps him on the shoulder from the side.

They’ve been through dinner and dessert and hours of chit-chat, and Aziraphale has decided it’s time to go sort some volumes in the back room. Crowley had been Lounging, but a few minutes ago had decided it’s time to be Lurking. He’s been pacing slowly along the circular rug, which is bordered by large pillars.

Crowley almost jumps. Aziraphale can spend days back there; it can’t have been more than an hour.

“Sorry, but I do believe there may be a...discussion we never finished.” Aziraphale is fidgety, fretting with his hands.

Crowley does not move away. “What? When was that?”

Aziraphale approaches even closer now, gesturing wordlessly for the wine glass. “You didn’t have to freeze that woman at the convent, you know.” It occurs to Crowley that he could ignore the gesture and keep drinking, but he doesn’t want to, and he hands over the glass. Aziraphale miracles it away, probably onto his desk.

“The nun? Are you still on that?” Crowley manages to ask, frowning. Is he seriously going to get lectured about this after everything? There is, though, something inviting about Aziraphale’s eyes in the soft gold light of the bookshop after dark.

“Well.” Aziraphale starts to lift his hand. He hesitates (what is happening?) and finally brings it to Crowley’s chest (oh-- okay, okay, go ahead, angel), pushing until he’s backed against a pillar (this must be important). “She was running away,” Aziraphale says. “She was no threat. I’m sure we could have found her afterward.”

Crowley glances down at Aziraphale’s hand on his chest. “After…?”

Aziraphale brings his other arm up, slowly removing Crowley’s glasses from his eyes. Crowley watches, slack-jawed; when there is no objection, Aziraphale tucks them into his pocket. “We were discussing your, ah, nature.” Aziraphale has not removed his hand from Crowley’s chest (which is perfectly fine) and seems to be asking him to stay in one place, though he isn’t making consistent eye contact. He seems to be observing Crowley’s throat. And lips, perhaps.

“Oh. Yeah, right, I was reminding you of how...ah. ‘M not nice.” Crowley brings a hand up to Aziraphale’s arm, and that garners intense eye contact. It’s like Aziraphale thinks he’s being asked to stop the touching. Instead, Crowley holds him there.

A beat passes. Aziraphale twitches a little smile and takes Crowley’s collar lapels in his fists, curling his fingers carefully into the fabric, pulling Crowley’s head and shoulders ever so slightly closer (yes, good) even as his lower back is pressed against the pillar (by Aziraphale’s body, his closeness). It’s a gentle imitation of what happened that day at the convent.

“And you were doing it in a rather not-nice manner,” Aziraphale continues, an entirely toothless kind of reproach in his voice.

Crowley swallows the urge to lick his lips (and kiss Aziraphale). “That was the point, after all.” He shrugs (very coolly, not at all nervously).

“But Crowley, you know...I wasn’t afraid of you.” He’s pressing them flush together now, front to front. Never in six thousand years has Crowley felt a heat like this. He puts his arm around Aziraphale’s back, encouraged by his hooded eyes. Crowley's a demon. He knows that expression. It's desire.

“It wasn’t about scaring you. It was about…” What was it really about? “Emphasis.” Not quite. The electricity between them is very distracting.

“And, indeed, I may have needed that emphasis.” Once again, they’re nose-to-nose. “There’s still something else you should know, however.”

“...Ssssure?”

Aziraphale smells like his cologne, and wine, and the cinnamon cake they had for dessert. “I was not uncomfortable.”

“You already said that,” Crowley whispers.

“I only said I was not frightened.”

Aziraphale is staring from Crowley’s eyes to his lips to his eyes again.

“...Say it, angel.”

“Crowley. I...” He pauses, peers off to each side in a rather familiar way.

“You can tell me. Nobody’s near.” To make his point, Crowley closes his eyes and senses. No ethereal or occult forces anywhere near the building. “No one’s listening.” The truth is, they haven't caught anyone listening since the Armageddon That Wasn’t. It’s hard to shake off the caution when you’ve spent six thousand years employing it, however.

When Crowley opens his eyes again, Aziraphale is biting his lip, and then he wets it just a tiny bit with his tongue. (Oh. Ooohhh.) “Alright. I very much enjoyed being that close,” he whispers at last, and lowers both of his hands, resting them instead on each side of Crowley’s waist. “To you.”

Crowley can neither hold back a grin nor figure out the appropriate thing to say next.

He’s gathering the courage to close the last few agonizing centimeters when Aziraphale asks, with eyebrows arched hopefully, “Ah...what about you?”

“It-- I-- yeah. Yeah, in a way, that’s what it was all about in the first place, I guess.”

“And what about,” Aziraphale nods down to where they’re pushed together, “this?” As if to emphasize, he gives Crowley a squeeze.

Truthfully, Crowley isn’t sure whether he’s going to explode or implode with all the sensory input going on here, but if this is what does him in, it’ll be a good way to go. “S’nice,” he manages.

A smile. They are so, so close to each other that Crowley can feel the heat of that smile. “You said you don’t like nice,” Aziraphale says, and there is something suggestive to his voice.

“No, no. I’m not nice. I still - I can still enjoy things that you could describe that way, sometimes.”

At last, Aziraphale connects their lips, the touch of his mouth warm and soft, and it’s all too brief.

There is a pause, wherein they both exhale. “Was that too forward?” Aziraphale asks.

Much to Crowley’s chagrin, his voice comes out fragile. “I’m not sure that’s possible, angel,” he says, gulping. Tears could come if he let them.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmurs, and kisses him much more soundly. Crowley feels the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue brush against his lips and answers it, shyly at first, with his own. It doesn’t take long for Crowley to lose himself, though, winding himself into Aziraphale’s arms and kissing their lips swollen.

There’s another brief interlude when Aziraphale is smiling too widely to keep going, his face lit up like the break of dawn. “I admit, it would have been dreadful timing before, but I have been craving that,” he whispers. “Thank you.”

Crowley grins, pulls Aziraphale back in, and peppers kisses all over his face.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #ineffable partners #good omens fanfiction

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why-not-go-with-style · 5 years ago

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I... managed to get myself ill in the middle of the summer. For the third time this year, it’s getting weird. So writing was a little hard in the last couple of days. But I think I managed to survive.

Also, @kaz3313 requested Ineffable Bureaucracy with the prompt “Coffee”, and I am a loser who deleted their ask accidentally (at least I got a screenshot), but here it is anyways. Hope you enjoy it!

———

What they do aren’t coffee dates, per say.

They aren’t coffee dates first of all because neither of them drink coffee.

Gabriel doesn’t drink at all, actually – something about sullying his god-given vessel with gross matter, as it were. (Beelzebub suspects he has just never learned how digestion works, and is, at this point, too afraid to ask, but they keep their suspicions to themself). He scrunches his nose at coffee shop signs and at coffee shops attendees and at the general concept of coffee shops, because anything which exists purely for indulgence is always in a precarious balance on the line of gluttony.

The Prince of Hell, in their turn, drinks... substances, but in order to call said substances coffee one would need to be very generous, and possibly to never have tasted coffee before. They mix in egregious amounts of syrups, powders, whipped cream and occasional shots of gasoline (for taste), to the point where the only faint reminder of the substance’s original nature is the occasional faint whiff of coffee beans. (That is fake; all self-respecting demons buy instant coffee). They are the kind of customer baristas tell horror stories about. They delight in it.

The second reason why they aren’t coffee dates is that they aren’t dates at all – not technically, not literally, not by definition. Or, well, perhaps by definition – what’s the definition of a date? Obscure words must have been Hell’s invention! – but certainly not by intent. In order for them to be dates, there’d have to be a discussion, a conversation, a “Would-you-perhaps” and a “Perhaps-I-would”.

Nothing of those sorts is ever had.

Instead, the two of them sort of just begin showing up at a coffee shop down the road from their office building at the same time on the same days. They never discuss it. Gabriel takes a seat at an (always) conveniently free table by the largest window, and Beelzebub makes their way to the counter with an evil smirk, as they prepare to throw together another appalling amalgamation of a drink. Gabriel has personally witnessed poor baristas play that needlessly complicated human finger symbol game behind the counter for the dubious honour of being the one to take the Prince’s order. Because he is not a demon, and as such does not delight in human suffering, he has to remind himself not to be amused.

Their first meeting here must have been nothing more than a fluke, a whim of chance. It was months before the planned Armageddon. Beelzebub has taken refuge in the coffee shop many a days before, furious with their kingdom and its leaky pipes, but it was the first time when archangel Gabriel walked inside to hide himself (or, rather, his immaculate three-piece suit) from the perils of London rain. Their gazes snapped to each other immediately – a presence so occult or so ethereal is hard to ignore. Still, Gabriel has tried to ignore it, and did so valiantly for a couple of minutes, but when one of the baristas gave him a once-over and told him to either order or get out (brave boy; Beelzebub was momentarily inclined to make his life less miserable), the archangel narrowed his eyes and said he’s meeting a friend.

Well, to be more precise, he said he was meeting an enemy. But the gist of it was the same.

They sat in stony silence, listening to the rain and Beelzebub’s obnoxiously loud slurping, and then Gabriel gave up and asked them how their day was. Their day had been abysmal (Hellish, really), so they figured that since he had given up first they have all the rights to complain.

And from then on, it just kept happening. Like one of those stupid human jokes. An angel and a demon walk into a coffee shop... There is no punchline, because they just sit and talk and then walk right back out, except perhaps that is a punchline in itself, because angels and demons aren’t meant to get along.

(“Who says they aren’t meant to get along?” Beelzebub wonders aloud, later, way later, and neither of them mentions it, but both of them are thinking about the same couple of beings. If they can do it, then why not–“

That right there is a slippery slope.)

They meet almost daily in the run-up to the Apocalypse. It’s a desperate thing without either of them admitting it, because the coffee shop only had ten-six-five-three days left to exist, and then there will be no more Earth. No more coffee, or no more watching Beelzebub drink coffee, or no more Beelzebub at all if everything goes according to plan (but Gabriel doesn’t let himself think about that). Three-two-one and then no more days, and when they leave it for the last time they don’t say goodbye, because that would be too final.

They expect to see each other on a battlefield. Instead, they see each other on an empty airbase runway, and the world doesn’t end.

Their next meeting would be awkward, so they default to being furious instead.

How dare they– Those traitors– Gone native– Should have called them back– Have to punish–

Paradoxically, that’s the first time their meeting is fully about work. Beelzebub promises Gabriel hellfire if he can get them holy water, and they lace their voice with too much anger to be believable, but Gabriel doesn’t call them out because he is an actor just as lousy. He doesn’t say that he’s glad the Earth is still here. He doesn’t say that he’s glad Beelzebub is still here. He says that Aziraphale deserves to burn, and regrets that he cannot miracle himself into believing it just the proper amount.

It shouldn’t be surprising, in retrospect, that Aziraphale doesn’t burn, because that week nothing is going according to plan. Aziraphale doesn’t burn, and when Gabriel meets Beelzebub the next day the expression they wear is of sheer daze, so he assumes that Crowley doesn’t melt either. He sits down and orders two espressos. Both of them drink in silence.

“Zzzo,” Beelzebub says, finally, and they aren’t even trying to hide the soft buzz in their voice.

“So,” Gabriel agrees.

They drink in silence some more. Espressos aren’t big enough to pass as a viable excuse, so they keep miracling their cups full.

“It’ll sort itself out,” Gabriel says, finally. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” Beelzebub echoes. And then; “You know, I’m kind of sick of this plazzze.”

“Earth?”

“The coffee shop, moron,” they roll their eyes.

Gabriel gets it. Kind of. He’s forced himself to get over it, to seize caring for it back when he expected it to be destroyed. It was all well and good that it wasn’t – or, well, maybe not, whether the averted Apocalypse was a blessing or a curse was a question yet to find its answer – but Gabriel could do with a change of scenery.

“Yeah, I could do with a change of scenery,” he says out loud. And then: “There’s a wonderful place in London, it’s called the Ritz. Glowing reviews.”

Beelzebub squints their eyes at him. Smiles.

“Glowing reviewzzz,” they repeat. “Tomorrow, seven. Don’t be late.”

They get up, miracle a few hundred pound notes into the tip jar at the counter (that just might pay off all the drinks they’ve had here), and walk out into the pouring rain.

This, Gabriel thinks to himself as he listens to the chime of the doorbell trying to make itself heard in their wake, also won’t be a coffee date.

After all, it won’t involve any coffee.

#good omens #ineffable bureaucracy #archangel gabriel #beelzebub #ineffable husbands #are mentioned once but oh well #allie scribbles #allie does prompts #and promises to do them quicker #maybe??

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theres-a-goldensky · 5 years ago

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32 + 6 Good Omens Fic Recs

There have been so many good stories to come out of the Good Omens fandom that I thought I should finally go about making a rec list and give credit to the ones that have given me the most joy.

As ever, feel free to reblog and check out my other rec lists for the following fandoms:

The Untamed list one and two - various pairings, mostly Wangxian

IT chapter 2 list one and two - Reddie

Various BL Series fic (fandoms: Love By Chance, TharnType, 2Moons series, My Engineer, Until We Meet Again, 2gether, History3: Trapped)

Or just head over to my bookmarks on AO3.

All fics are completed. All fics are Aziraphale/Crowley.

** denotes a favorite

1. you knew my name on sight by brinnanza - “This wasn’t me, you know,” Crowley says, the words out of his mouth before he’s made the conscious choice to utter them. “Not just the library, but the whole civil war. You know me; I’ve mostly been getting drunk at Bacchanals.”

“I know,” says Aziraphale. (general, 8,300 words)

Reccer’s note: Aziraphale knows Crowley, perhaps even better than he knows himself. This is a bittersweet story about two human shaped-beings who love the Earth, even when it hurts.

2. End with Hope by PepperPrints - In 537 A.D., the Black Knight enters King Arthur's Tournament of Champions, with quite disastrous consequences, and Sir Aziraphale of the Round Table takes it upon himself to intervene -- which, naturally, also turns out to be quite disastrous in itself. (explicit, 15,888 words)

Reccer’s note: Such great pining from Crowley here. This is a really meaty story with a satisfying ending and a gorgeous sex scene, but it definitely leaves me wishing for a modern sequel to see what happens next.

3. Fraternizing by kalpurna - Aziraphale has an unexpected house guest. Crowley disapproves. (explicit, 5,720 words)

Reccer’s note: A curious young angel comes down from Heaven to investigate what things are like on Earth. He asks a lot of very...awkward questions about Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship. It seems to diverge from canon in that Heaven knows about Aziraphale working with Crowley and sort of looks the other way.

4. Some strangeness in the proportion by trailingoff - ‘I assume your punishment involved the destruction of the demon, but I am not aware of the details,’ says the Angel. ‘The description was redacted from your file and labelled “Highly Classified” with a red stamp.’

*Aziraphale is trying to mourn in peace, but the cause of his grief keeps bothering him. (teen, 11,461 words)

Reccer’s note: Heavy angst warning. This one hurt, but in the best way. Angst with a happy ending. Gabriel figures out the best way to hurt Aziraphale: he makes Crowley into another soulless angel. This story contains grieving and suicidal ideation and attempted suicide. Aziraphale does not take Crowley’s passing well.

5. In Style by shinyopals - ‘You can’t get kidnapped by the forces of Hell looking like that!’ insists Crowley. ‘I have certain standards to maintain!’

Letting someone else drive your body is weird enough without them accidentally ruining your look. Luckily Crowley's around to fix things. (general, 2,124 words)

Reccer’s note: I am an absolute sucker for stories about playing with hair or massage or any kind of pleasant, comforting touching, and this is a great one. I liked Crowley’s voice in this, and the whole thing was very sweet and cozy.

6. Birds of a Feather by idiopathicsmile - “Isn’t this nice?” says Aziraphale with badly feigned casualness the next time Crowley stops by for a late night drink.

Crowley is all set to reply, words lined up in his mouth waiting to go, when Aziraphale adds, “I mean, all of the books and furniture and bottles of wine and things?”

Aziraphale nests. Crowley relearns some crucial facts about angelic courtship rituals. (teen, 3608 words)

Reccer’s note: Aziraphale decides to go all in on courting Crowley, but Crowley is entirely befuddled by what is happening. Some nice mutual pining here, followed by a bit of supernatural, glowy sex.

7. By Definition by idiopathicsmile - Aziraphale has certainly dabbled in the world of carnal delights over the years, most notably in the late nineteenth century, when a certain infernal adversary was enjoying a century-long nap and seemingly the only way to pass the time had been to develop some hobbies. (explicit, 3074 words)

Reccer’s note: Aziraphale is not that into sex, but he’s VERY into Crowley and watching him come apart beneath him. And Crowley is VERY interested in, you know, having that happen. So things work out quite nicely. Even though the physical sensations of sex don’t do much for him, the author does a nice job of showing how Aziraphale still luxuriates in watching Crowley. It’s super hot. Crowley agrees.

8. I am not scared of the elements by sparklespiff - After the loveliest meal of his entire existence, Aziraphale followed Crowley back to the Bentley. He wondered if it would be too forward to try to hold Crowley's free hand, or if he ought to wait for Crowley to reach out. Probably he should wait. Crowley had done the asking, after all, and would better know what he was doing. And anyway, riding in the Bentley was dangerous enough without removing one of Crowley's hands from doing something theoretically necessary for the operation of an automobile.

or: Two occult/ethereal beings with one (1) brain cell between them attempt to end 6000 years of pining. (general, 3609 words)

Reccer’s note: Aziraphale thinks it’s go time after the events of the show, but Crowley believes that Aziraphale has once again put on the brakes. They’re working at cross-purposes, but they both want the same thing. Eventually it all works out.

9. attachment by artenon - 1941. Crowley is hurt more than he lets on from walking on the consecrated ground of the church. Aziraphale takes care of him while grappling with the realization that he's in love with Crowley. (teen, 4455 words)

A bit of mild hurt/comfort. It’s always nice when stories have Aziraphale helping Crowley, because it’s often the other way around. And you can never go wrong with a good h/c.

10. speeding up by tamerofdarkstars - Crowley stopped calculating the minute shifts required to bring his knee into contact with Aziraphale’s and looked instead at the divine being next to him currently licking butter off his fingers.

“Wait. You picked this because you thought I’d like it?” (general, 1725 words)

Reccer’s note: This is one of the shortest fics on the list, but what it lacks in length, it makes up for in utter preciousness. So many pure ‘what if I held his hand??’ thoughts.

11.** Five Times Crowley Fails To Demonically Seduce Anyone, And One Time He Doesn't Need To by shinyopals - 'I need you to tell me how to find a human willing to have sex with me, and then how to persuade them to actually do it in the least unpleasant way possible for everyone involved. If I don’t manage at least one seduction, I’m going to get recalled back Down There.’

Aziraphale stared at Crowley for a moment. ‘I think…’ he said delicately, ‘that we should have that drink.’ (mature, 11,166 words)

Reccer’s note: Oh, the feelings. The feelings. Crowley is forced by Hell to engage in some human seduction, when all he wants to do is be seduced by Aziraphale. The pining. The light angst. The gorgeous ending. Read this story.

12. ** Anywhere You Want to Go by Aria - Aziraphale knew Crowley liked him. He'd known it with a horrible clarity since around 1100, which was at least a thousand years after the first time he'd thought of kissing Crowley, and some eight hundred and odd before it occurred to him that the specific quality of Crowley's regard could be very dangerous for both of them, if they actually admitted their feelings aloud.

It was also two weeks since any of that had mattered at all anymore. (explicit, 9990 words)

Reccer’s note: I wish this story was about 10,000 words longer. The sweet and slow coming together here is lovely. This is a South Downs cottage story, where, after everything, Aziraphale is finally ready to face his feelings for Crowley and Crowley’s feelings for him in return. Crowley’s disbelieving, besotted, overwhelmed reaction is my new favorite thing in this fandom.

13. human childcare for the occult (and ethereal) by suzukiblu - The Dowlings miraculously need a nanny and a gardener at the same time, and Aziraphale suggests they flip for it. Crowley takes one moment to picture Aziraphale nannying anyone and calls dibs. It’s not that Aziraphale’s terrible with humans, he’s just, well. Terrible with humans. Truly, truly terrible.

He doesn’t want to deal with Aziraphale getting metaphorically guillotined or kicking up security’s paranoia, basically. A gardener can be a little odd, and no one will notice or care. Except Warlock, perhaps, as the only other person with any real reason to spend much time out on the lawn, but Warlock’s the one they want noticing so that’ll be fine, Crowley’s sure.

Even if it does make him cringe a little, leaving Aziraphale in charge of the plants. (general, 11,954 words)

Reccer’s note: As with all nanny/gardener stories, you need to mentally erase Aziraphale’s horrifying gardener disguise from your brain in order to enjoy this. But this tale of Crowley and Aziraphale becoming “godfathers” to Warlock and making a cozy little life together at the Dowlings is wonderful.

14. Naps and Other Surprises by out_there - The angel is a surprisingly good kisser. All soft lips and gentle sighs, and the careful graze of fingertips along Crowley's jaw. But there's also the scrape of fingernails at the nape of his neck, the pins and needles shiver it sends down his spine, the slightest catch of teeth on his lower lip. (explicit, 4,312 words)

Reccer’s note: Another slow and cozy fic that starts with Aziraphale slowly and carefully giving Crowley a massage and ends with him slowly and carefully eating Crowley out. Pretty nice day for Crowley tbh.

15 & 16. Ineffable Endearments series by TheLadyZephyr - So far this series includes two stories: Four times Crowley called Aziraphale "sweetheart" without noticing (and One time he did) and Four times Crowley fails to cope with Aziraphale using a pet name (and One time he starts to get used to it)

(not rated, 6,130 words total for the series)

Reccer’s note: Look, if you’re going to do the pet names things, I think you have to really lean into it, and that’s what this author does. It’s sweet how adorably flustered they each get in these stories. So fluffy.

17. An Angel who did not so much Fall In Love as Settle Into It Gradually by TheLadyZephyr - Crowley was standing in the middle of the room, hands in his pockets, looking a little lost. Aziraphale eyed the distance between them. Five steps. Five steps, and six thousand years, and a battlefield spanning an eternity.

The story of the little moments over the millennia that shape an angel’s regard for a demon, and the way he slowly, with great reluctance but inevitable surety, falls in love. (general, 7,548 words)

Reccer’s note: I wish more stories would span the centuries the way that this one does. There’s so much material ripe for a good love story in it, and this author seems to understand that. Slow burn that I wish was a little slower, but still left me satisfied, especially the kiss at the end, when Aziraphale literally says “fuck it.”

18. get religion quick (cause you're looking divine) by brinnanza - So it was fine. Even if Crowley couldn’t love him, he clearly liked him well enough, and that was almost the same thing.

It no doubt would have continued to be fine, or at least fine-adjacent, were it not for a narrowly averted apocalypse and several bottles of a really quite nice Riesling Aziraphale had found in the back room of his newly restored bookshop. (general, 4,285 words)

Reccer’s note: Why, why, why aren’t there more stories with Aziraphale being sure that Crowley can’t love him? This is wonderful seeing the pining from the other side. And of course Aziraphale is completely wrong and completely silly, but that just makes it better. Stars in my eyes for this one.

19. Wings and How to Hide Them by triedunture - Crowley's been annoyingly in love for six thousand years. What's another lifetime between friends?

Or: Aziraphale definitely fucks and isn't that just perfect? (Mature,10,134 words)

Reccer’s note: Crowley knows that Aziraphale has sex, so he assumes it must just be him he doesn’t want. Aziraphale, meanwhile, assumes that Crowley just isn’t Into That. 6000 years of Crowley pining. I will honestly never get enough of this trope. Not ever. I will die wanting more.

20. the first week of the rest of their lives by Deputychairman - “Port gives the worst hangovers in the world, did you know that?” Crowley slurred when the bottle was all gone. “Don’t know who got credit for that one. Nice drink, lovely drink, shame it makes you want to die in the morning.”

“Such a shame,” Aziraphale agreed sadly, watching Crowley stretch out on his sofa. He did like port. He liked Crowley stretched out on his sofa, too. (mature, 4,618 words)

Reccer’s note: The world doesn’t end, but Aziraphale needs a bit of time to ease himself into the idea of a life with Crowley. Crowley obliges him, as ever. I like the way that the sex feels inevitable here, like they’re just falling naturally into it. I also like that Crowley is the one to ravish Aziraphale first.

21. Not So Blue by pineapplecrushface - Aziraphale presses his suit. Crowley mostly has a lot of questions. (mature, 5,501 words)

Reccer’s note: After the events of the show, things start to change and Crowley doesn’t know if he’s quite ready for it. The way that Crowley comes to recognize Aziraphale’s feelings for what they are was so beautiful.

22. Almost Human Moments by shinyopals - The fact that Crowley's largest contribution to saving the world had been to encourage a scared child was an uncomfortable fact that he was endeavouring to bottle up. He was actually doing quite well at bottling it up because of all the other uncomfortable facts he was currently dealing with that he couldn’t even begin to figure out how to bottle up.

Such as: Hell was going to find him, and make him pay.

After the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Crowley broods, Aziraphale thinks, and somehow they manage to muddle through. (teen, 6,701 words)

Reccer’s note: The visceral and immediate reaction that Crowley has to the idea of Aziraphale going down to Hell was so lovely. There’s also some very intense hand holding that really pushes my buttons. The world needs more desperate hand holding.

23. ** Ever After by ArabellaFaith - We all know they're in love. But maybe, now that the head offices are off their backs, Crowley and Aziraphale can actually DO something about it.

A rambling descent into love confessions, sexual exploration, and what it means for these two to live happily ever after. (explicit, 16,450 words)

Reccer’s note: So much sex. So much really, really good sex. Desperate sex. First time sex. Sex with feelings Is there anything better in fanfic? I really don’t think so.

24 & 25. ** It’s Not The End of the World, Dear series by jessthereckless - Series includes two stories so far: Lie Back And Think Of Dinner and Still My Heart Has Wings

After averting the apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale re-examine their relationship and reach the obvious conclusion: they're retired, they're in love and they're damn well going to enjoy it. Providing, of course, that they can stay out of trouble. (mature, 20,745 words total for the series)

Reccer’s note: WHY ISN’T THERE MORE MAGICAL SEX IN THIS FANDOM? I want literally earth-shattering orgasms, give them to me, people. These stories are so good, because the author packs so much feeling and sensuality into every agonized scene between them. There’s desperation, there’s so much love, and there’s really weird-but-hot sex.

26. Taking the Liberty by CartWrite - After swapping bodies (but before their respective sides come for them), Aziraphale spends the night in Crowley's flat trying to figure out how to talk, walk, and be convincing as Crowley. Trouble is, he's such a convincing Crowley, he starts to convince himself to... well. Things get out of hand. (explicit, 3,463 words)

Reccer’s note: Is it really masturbation if you’re bodyswapped with the guy you’ve spent 6000 years pretending not to be obsessed with? Asking for a friend.

27. a city wall and a trampoline by kafkian - In their cottage in the South Downs, when Crowley eventually succeeds in getting Aziraphale to use a laptop, it takes Aziraphale literal hours to get past the default Windows screensavers of picturesque locations because 'oh, look, isn't it lovely, Crowley!'

5 times Crowley knows he’s in love with Aziraphale + 1 time he knows the reverse. (teen, 4,727 words)

Reccer’s note: Crowley just being so endlessly fond of Aziraphale fills me with so much joy. And it’s here again. It’s technically five times that he knows he’s in love with Aziraphale, but it’s also five times that Crowley tries so hard to make Aziraphale happy.

28. A Home at the Beginning of the World by stereobone - "Oh," Aziraphale says. "I think Crowley might have moved in with me." (explicit, 5,867 words)

Reccer’s note: A visit with Anathema and Newt helps Aziraphale realize some very clear things that he’s been missing.

29. Too Generous by rfsmiley - “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”

Or: what happened after the [ we all got hit by a ] bus scene (aka "you could stay at my place, if you like")....(teen, 1,501 words)

Reccer’s note: Crowley offers Aziraphale the bed, and Aziraphale suggests that there would be room for two. Contains slinky Crowley, which there should just be more of in the world.

30. His Banner Over Me by pineapplecrushface - Three of Aziraphale's excellent ideas, and how Crowley (very casually) obliges him, as a friend does. (explicit, 5475 words)

Reccer’s note: Handjobs. Just...truly excellent mutual handjobs. \

And finally, because this is my blog and I can, here is a list of my own stories for after you finish all the recs above:

1. The Seduction Malfunction - “Disguise yourself,” Hastur said. “Pretend you’re a priest, or better yet, an altar boy. Their lot can’t resist an altar boy.”

Crowley held in a hysterical bubble of laughter as he imagined Aziraphale’s horrified face at being confronted with Crowley disguised as a lascivious altar boy. He’d feed him soup and give him a good talking to before sending him on his way.

Crowley gets orders to seduce Aziraphale to the dark side. It goes about as well as you might expect. (teen, 5,441 words)

2. Transference - There was always a low level hum of attraction and lust in the air when Crowley was around. In fact, Aziraphale couldn’t recall a single time, after their first meeting on the wall, when he hadn’t watched Crowley dazzle and transfix every poor human that they encountered. He’d even seen Eve give him the eye when he was in his human form, back in the day, and she’d been with child at the time.

Aziraphale couldn’t blame them for falling victim to Crowley’s considerable wiles. He was a demon, after all. Tempting was in the job description. Plus, he’d clearly designed his human form to be utterly irresistible to all humans, from his eye-catching hair down to his stylish clothing. It was overkill, if you asked Aziraphale. But then, he supposed, overkill wasn’t really a thing with demons.

Aziraphale would win a gold medal in Mental Gymnastics. (mature, 4,282 words)

3. Step in the Bright Lights - The angel was holding court on the walking path surrounded by a passel of small children and their bored parents. He wore an absolutely ridiculous magician’s costume, complete with a top hat, cape, black wand, and a painted on mustache above his upper lip that had Crowley recoiling in horror. On a table in front of Aziraphale was a sign that proclaimed: THE AMAZING MISTER FELL AND HIS REMARKABLE FEATS OF PRESTIDIGITATION.

He almost turned right around, but then Aziraphale spotted him and waved enthusiastically, stopping in the middle of a bit involving some handkerchiefs coming out of his sleeve to greet him.

“Oh, look, children! It’s the Amazing Mr. Fell’s very special assistant, Signor Crowley!”

Aziraphale picks up some new hobbies. Crowley has no chill. (teen, 3,311 words)

4. Something To Talk About - He had the sudden and almost overwhelming desire to reach out and take Crowley’s hand. An absurd notion, of course. In 6000 years, Crowley had never shown any inclination towards physical affection for Aziraphale, despite their shared feelings. Aziraphale had long ago accepted that any gentle touch from him would have Crowley stepping hastily away and otherwise ignoring Aziraphale’s attempts. Or at least he had accepted it, until their delicate status quo had been disrupted.

Aziraphale jumps to some very inaccurate conclusions. (explicit, 3,664 words)

5. To Rest My Weary Soul - “Are you saying I feel like this because of my time in Hell? I thought you meant moral consequences.”

“Since when do I give a toss about moral consequences, angel? No, you’ve got a Hell hangover. Must have hit once the adrenaline wore off,” Crowley answered.

“Hell hangover?” Aziraphale repeated incredulously.

Aziraphale's trip down to Hell leaves him worse for wear. (teen, 3,945 words)

Bonus: Podfic by FayJay

6. Taking the Long Way - Crawley nodded down at the sweaty humans undulating in a frightfully uncomfortable-looking position below them. “Mating,” he clarified. “One of God’s better ideas, if you ask me. Looks like it could be fun.”

“Does it?” Aziraphale asked doubtfully. “It’s all a bit sticky for my tastes. I think She had the right of it with plants. Pollination seems much more sensible.”

It takes Aziraphale 6000 years to catch up. (explicit, 6,919 words)

#good omens #good omens fic #fic recs #reclist #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fic rec #ineffable husbands fic #aziraphale/crowley

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joddit-y · 5 years ago

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Gabriel and Beelzebub's Divintively Terrible Plan (a Good Omens fanfiction)

if you’d rather read it A03, click here

chapter one is here, two is here, three is here

CHAPTER FOUR

Aziraphale, having known Crowley for around six thousand years, know quite a bit about him. Some of the more important things were the fact that Crowley cried, he could do weird things with his tongue, and most importantly, he was seldom truly fearful. True fear was rare in ethereal or occult beings and even rarer in the Serpent of Eden. The demon tended to smother his emotions, out what Aziraphale assumed was pride. So to see him experience what could only be described as a severe panic attack was unsettling to say the least. But Aziraphale was predominantly worried as he hurried inside to collect a soft rag and a glass of water from where he’d left Crowley sitting in the outside lot. He’d been twisting at his jacket sleeves, knees curling up to his chest the last he’d seen him.

The angel had made a friend in the late nineteenth century (Crowley had been asleep at the time so he’d been available) out of an intrepid customer who had, despite his best efforts, managed to visit his shop weekly. Eventually his annoyance gave way to grudging admiration and they became fast friends. She figured out that he didn’t particularly want to sell his books, so she just curled up in a corner with a stack of tomes and a pair of cotton gloves for hours, never buying. One unfortunate day she decided to bring her fellow book enthusiast with her on her weekly visit, and he was less than patient with the seller’s antics. He pressured the poor girl into simply buying the book she’d been reading for the past few weeks (he hadn’t planned on a long visit), and as a result she’d panicked, not knowing who she wanted to please. Apparently the man she’d been with was her date, and he was alarmed by her nervous breakdown and abandoned her there. Aziraphale had done his best to help her that day, and it was then she’d informed him of several generic ways to help someone having a panic attack.

The first rule, let the patient decide what they need (physical contact being a big one), don’t force anything on them. The second, if they look like they might be about to hurt themselves (whether intentionally or not), give them something mindless to do with their hands. The third was to attempt to understand what happened once they were calm.

He mouthed the rules to himself as he scuttled over the hardwood, gently opening the door to the back porch. Closing it with a soft click, he saw Crowley was now upright. A good start, he cheered silently. The lanky demon looked at him from over his shoulder balefully, and it was then Aziraphale noticed the crate had moved itself outside, and Crolwey was preparing to break it open. He hovered over the last step, confused.

“Crowley, why...well, are you alri--”

Crowley waved him over and cut him off.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine, now are we going to see what’s been hogging your floor space or what?”

The angel’s eye roll was barely reigned in as he begrudgingly acquiesced. Of course Crowley would pretend everything was fine, his ego was roughly the size of Soho afterall. His demonic nature made him too proud to ever ask for help. Demons liked themselves very much, and accepted help from none, lest their “reputation” be tarnished (although a certain demon tarnished his own reputation by making his most common wile gluing coins to the street). He’d resigned himself to this fact centuries ago, he just preferred not to think of it. He preferred to fool himself into thinking that Crowley knew just how much he was loved.

Meanwhile, the demon had begun to pry open the top of the crate, miraculously avoiding the splinters gunning for his slender fingers. Aziraphale sighed. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t just drop the issue. Grasping the cool metal of the second crow bar he joined his friend.

“Dear boy, I must ask what happened not five minutes ago. I’ve never seen you that panicked before, aside from the Apocalypse of course.” he grunted, the thick wood beginning to finally give way.

Crowley paused in throwing his entire weight against the bar long enough to sigh despairingly.

“Angel- that was-well, I suppose I don’t really know exactly what happened,” he fumbled, waving his free hand around, a sure sign he was uncomfortable. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows disbelievingly.

“...I just sorta. I dunno, it’s over now though so it’s fine .”

He grumped, throwing himself back into his work with a renewed vigour.

Huffing, Aziraphale asked Crowley if it was time he step back from the box, as it was almost open and he didn’t want to get hurt. The demon nodded curtly as the lid creaked open, releasing a cloud of dust along with the unpleasant sensation of being watched. Shoving the lid onto the ground, Crowley peered over the lip of the crate, only to be met with the back of a gloved hand to the face. Aziraphale startled to his side as Crowley tripped backwards, matching expressions of shock painting their faces. Crowley made to stand slightly in front of the barbed angel at his side, preparing to protect him from the waves of demonic energy seeping out of the container, which were unexpectedly and alarmingly more intense than he’d sensed. Crowley’s pupils shrunk to anxious pinpricks amidst a golden sea.

“Who in the he- hea- Earth are you, and why have you spent the last few days loitering inside an angel’s book shop?” Crowley announced, feeling quite pleased with how confident he sounded. Aziraphale wondered if he knew how much his voice was wavering.

The satin hand considered flipping them off for a moment before withdrawing back inside the crate. The hand was attached to its owner, (it is actually important to clarify this, this particular hand had been attached to several other demons in the course of its existence) who was feeling quite rash at the moment, as they had just spent a good part of the week stuffed inside a cheap, splintery crate in full formal attire. Of course they had chosen to wear that outfit, but that was beside the point. The demon considered their options as they listened the the pair outside shuffle nervously (Aziraphale had decided that he couldn’t leave Crowley to face the demon alone, and was resetting their placement to a more equally endangered position). They rather felt like with what they’d had to put up with (listening to an angel argue with voicemail for a week was infuriating), they had earned a dramatic entrance, the “dissasembled-body-parts-crawling-up-to-reassemble-themselves-limb-by-limb” being one of their personal favourites. But at the end of the day, they were tired, and wanted to get these morons out of their life as soon as possible.

Crowley had just begun to consider edging closer to the eerily silent box when suddenly there was a tall, suited creature in front of him. Confusion and worry fought for control over his facial features as he recognized the being standing before them. Aziraphale gave the demon a hasty once over warily, blue eyes darting to Crowley and then to the other demon’s tongue, which was currently tracking saliva all over a soft pink eyeball. He supposed that his snake-like friend wasn’t the only one who could do weird things with his tongue.

The maroon, leaf-like crests lining their head (like they put three minutes of work into making acceptable looking hair, which they had no idea how to go about doing in the first place) swayed slightly as the demon spoke.

“You are the demon Crowley and the angel Aziraphale.” he said, his voice an almost perfect baritone if it weren’t for the clicks and chirps punctuating his speech pattern.

Crowley seemed to sober up at his words, the angel noticed. He himself was finding it a tad difficult to tear his attention from the demon’s tartan pocket square. The snake demon considered lying before remembering that this tart had been hiding out in the bookshop for about a week now, so they were confirming, not asking. Drawing himself up to his full height (he didn’t like being looked down on, figuratively or literally, and they were currently doing both), he grumbled an affirmation. Leaning back, the demon picked their gloves off their hands.

“Good.” they barked.

Aziraphale decided to draw attention to himself.

“Excuse me, ah-”

“Dagon, Lord of the Files.” Dagon interrupted. “Or more like Lord of the Flies with how much time I spend around the Prince.” they snarked, the joke sliding off the pair like water slides off a duck. They were far too concerned at the moment to appreciate the rare sight of a demonic sense of humour.

“Lord Dagon then. To avoid beating the tush,”

A part of Crowley died as that awful misconstruction entered the world. Dagon just looked confused.

“what exactly is it that you want with us?”

The frilled head nodded knowingly, padded fingers drawing a small, black velvet box from their inner suit pocket.

“I’ve always preferred showing to telling, so why don’t you two just have a look in this chest for me?” they purred, holding the box out to them invitingly.

Crowley was fully aware that Dagon, while being an utter stiff, was a powerful, cunning demon who could incapacitate them both in a blink of their eye (metaphorically anyway, geckos and therefore Dagon did not blink). So when Aziraphale looked like he aimed to protest, he gave him a sharp poke in the ribs to shut him up, which worked, but earned him an affronted look.

“Why?” Crowley asked, feeling that this was a safe question. The demon rolled their eyes, and proceeded to make a production out of placing his other hand on the lid of the box. Curious blue and yellow gazes followed it reluctantly.

The lid snapped open, the dust that had been loitering in the velvet for decades was finally ousted.

And then several things happened all at once, so I will relay them to you in the most sensible order I can.

The box, greedy for its next meal, wrenched over 12000 years worth of memories from two violated minds. It had been getting pretty hangry recently with nothing to fill itself with, but all said and done it was extremely satisfied with the outcome of its little outing.

Their minds suddenly found themselves in a fog, trying desperately to latch onto things that it couldn’t remember, feelings that they’d never had. Then everything was gone.

Aziraphale suddenly found himself blank.

Crowley was empty.

Dagon, knowing they had about five minutes of dazed recovery time to leave without making a fuss, teleported the pair into the bedroom of the shop, and then disappeared back to their desk in the Management wing of Hell, hoping that the traitors would just live out the rest of their days (they were immortal of course, but the end of the world was still coming- eventually.) as the old married couple they acted like and not bother anyone.

~~~

As you know,angels and demons don’t technically have gender. Or sex for that matter. Pronouns are generally assigned to them by humans, who assume gender constantly. So really they just go with whatever is convenient at the time. Since these particular occult beings don’t remember their pronouns, we will just assume that they’ll figure it out eventually and refer to them both by he/him for convenient story telling.

He blinked. Blinking felt...odd. It felt as if he wasn’t meant to do it but got into a habit of it anyway. He blinked again, hoping the small action would clear the fog from his head. It didn’t help, but he decided to keep doing it. Blinking seemed to be the only feasible option right now, he wasn’t sure what to do with the rest of himself just yet. He wondered vaguely if he should be slithering right now, and if that was right then why did he have limbs?

Blink. One after the other this time, not that felt any less strange.

He flopped his head over to the right, nuzzling against the cool, soft thing underneath his cheek. What were these called again? ...Blanquette? No, no, that was French. Times had changed, and so had language. Frowning into the… soft thing, they realized that French was as much a mystery to them as the blanquette was. For that matter, so was the sleepy looking blonde lying just a few feet away from him.

Wait.

Lurching up from the blanquette and stumbling over the wood panels to prop himself haphazardly against a dusty old dresser (why are legs??), he watched the other being in the room suspiciously. The other looked to be harmless, but there was something about him that felt mildly dangerous, and he wasn’t going to take any chances in this state. But really, what was his state? He couldn’t remember anything before waking up a few minutes ago. That wasn’t good. This was very bad, not knowing yourself was very bad problem to have, especially if you can’t defend yourself from- defend from who? He couldn’t remember. He just had that feeling that he was in danger in some way. But at least he remembered common things, like… French, apparently. Thank God for that. Wait, he didn’t want to thank God, that was awkward for some reason.

If not God, then who- Satan? No that didn’t seem right either but who else would you thank, someone? Whatever, Someone would have to do for now. He got the feeling that this was a common dilemma of his.

There was something else about the fellow face planted into the bed that he couldn't quite put his finger on, but it made him uncomfortably comfortable. He didn’t feel like he should be trusting someone he’d never met but already knew. The soft waves of energy emanating from the man made him itchy. He wasn’t sure he liked that. But he couldn’t deny that something about him made him feel safe.

As he raised a pale, twiggy hand to scratch the back of his neck (anatomy! He knew that!), he readjusted his stance and limped slowly over to the bed. He knew how to use his legs, but his hips were an entirely different matter. Were they supposed to sway this much as he walked? Catching sight of a full length mirror propped against a wall, he stood up a tad straighter and gave himself a quick once over. Other than finding himself to be quite aesthetically pleasing, there wasn’t anything that required his immediate attention. Focusing back on the stranger (although he could be referring to himself here for all he knew), he leaned in slightly. Did he know this being? He certainly didn’t remember him, but he was pretty sure that he knew them. But all sense of sentimentality was forgotten when blue orbs batted open.

~~~

He felt...bad. This all felt wrong. But how did one know what was the difference between right and wrong, good and bad anyway? Blinking the sleepy haze from his eyes, he zeroed in on the rather angular looking person tensed at the foot of the thing they were lying on. He looked worried about something. Maybe he were suspicious of him? But he’d never done anything to this man as far as he could remember...

His hands move on their own accord to gently pat down his face. Was this who they were? Why didn’t he know that, he should know who he was, of that he was certain. This was definitely wrong-

“Oh dear oh dear oh dear-” he breathed, hand running through his apparently short hair while the other plump digits ran over his clothing. When the person across the room made a move towards them, he was barraged with questions.

“Who are you, where are we?!” “I-” “What is happening??”

The ginger waved his hands frantically, signalling that he was just as confused and that the interrogation wasn’t helping.

The two of them sat in silence for a minute, staring at each other. Eventually the blonde, once he’d calmed himself, decided they had to start somewhere. Clearing his throat, he inquired the other’s name.

“My name?” the other frowned, thinking hard behind the dark glasses.

“Yes, dear boy, everyone has a name.” he said, even though he currently had no idea what his own was. He hoped that hearing the other’s would jog something. While the skinny creature in the dark clothes pondered the question, the other suddenly wondered what he looked like. Glancing around the dusty room, he caught his reflection in a mirror across the room. He didn’t look like much (in stark contrast to the fellow leaning awkwardly against the dresser), but he found it pleasant. Homely, if you will.

“Well I don’t know who I am right now either, so let’s just call me...erm… I dunno, what’s a good name for me do you think?” he muttered, stuffing his hands into pockets that were far too small for anything to actually fit in.

“Wh- You don’t have your memories either?” the tartan clad man exclaimed.

The ginger shook his head hesitantly.

“Well you look very nice, very sophisticated. Maybe something proper, like Sean or maybe Anthony?” he suggested.

“Anthony, eh? Not bad. Don’t like Sean though." he accepted the name brusquely, and gestured impatiently for the other to do the same.

"Oh! Yes, my name. Erm." He blundered, looking to Anthony for ideas. He was somewhat offended by the small eye roll that accompanied the next suggestion.

“Why not...oh I don’t know, Michael? You could pass for a Michael.”

He shuddered. “No, no, definitely not.” Something about that name just made him uncomfortable. Anthony frowned, and did his best to remedy the sudden tension in the room. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then looked sideways at Not-Michael.

“You know, I’ve been going along with this because there’s something about you that makes me feel safe, but don’t you think this is suspicious? Don’t you think it’s odd that two amnesiacs wake up together in what looks like the centuries old backroom of a long dead pub?”he growled, making his way slowly across the creaking floor panels to the other man in a threatening manner. He was getting increasingly unnerved by how smoothly this was playing out, he didn’t feel right being this vulnerable.

“Unless, you’re...faking?”

Not-Michael bristled.

“How dare you! A being such as myself could never stoop so low. My only wish is to help and love others, here you stand accusing me of senseless deception!” he cried, standing wobbly on top of the bed to gain height on his attacker.

Anthony looked slightly abashed, but wasn’t backing down.

Two brilliantly white wings burst from Not-Michael’s back, sucking up all the color in the space to make way for them. His soft blue eyes hardened into vibrant blue mint orbs, white hair standing more upright than usual. He didn’t like this feeling, it was too intense, too angered . But he couldn’t seem to control it, as much as he desperately wanted to when Anthony flung up his arms to shield himself from the burning light illuminating the room.

Anthony didn’t know what had happened. One moment he had been interrogating his new acquaintance, and then he’d snapped, outraged and painful. The itch that had been plaguing him furiously bloomed into a fire racing through his veins, scorching him from the inside out.

Then suddenly a huge, slightly burnt, black snake had taken Anthony’s place, hissing like mad and coiling itself up defensively, preparing to do just that.

Now, and angel’s fury is, like most would assume, righteous. Powerful. But angels can be made furious over practically nothing (part of their design, unfortunately- it made smiting easier), and if the angel in question has no control over that anger and the power that comes with it (or no memory of even having it), then it can spiral out of control very quickly. And as is common with those quick to ferocity, that innocent anger can be easily misguided and taken out on the wrong person.

There are very few things that can halt this kind of anger in its tracks. One of them happens to be receiving a huge, sudden shock. And watching the only person you’ve ever met turn into a giant reptile is certainly surprising.

The light was gone. The air stopped vibrating and returned to its usual meander. Electric irises were once again soft. His blood wasn’t burning.

The wings however, stayed. But they didn’t possess the light of Heaven anymore, now they were completely normal wings. They’d stayed put because they’d had enough of the pocket dimension they’d been stored in for the last several years and decided to make a break for it.

The angel took a few steps away from the spitting animal across from him that he didn’t want to believe was Anthony. The speckled wings puffed a bit, mimicking their owners bewilderment.

The snake hissed.

“What have you done to Anthony?” he cried, pointing a plump finger at the just as bewildered looking snake. “Because-” he started, searching desperately for an answer to the beast in front of his very eyes. “Because you can’t be Anthony, people don’t just turn into large snakes. I think.”

Anthony, for his part,was more confused than he’d ever been before, which was saying a lot, seeing as he had woken up just ten minutes ago without his memories. He felt better as a snake though. He couldn’t remember quite how he was a snake, but it felt right this way.

“Oh you think I’m sstrange? You have wingss!” he argued with some difficulty. Speaking through a snake was very different.

“Yes, but that’s normal! Isn’t it? Yes, yes it is, wings are normal. Turning into a huge reptile is most definitely not!” Not-Michael spluttered.

“Being a ssnake iss- um. It doesn’t not feel normal? So that meansss it’ss completely normal, and if it feelss that way then it can’t exactly not be normal!” Anthony blustered.

“What?” The other said, trying valiantly to get through the double negatives to what he was actually saying. His hand faltered, swinging back down to his side.

“Besidess, what wass with all that horrible light? You nearly killed me! Over nothing!”

“I-what? I nearly killed you?” he suddenly looked horrified.

Anthony cringed. He’d wanted to scold the man, but he looked so genuinely and terribly distraught that he felt a little guilty about it.

“I mean, I don’t think ssso, but it ssure felt like you were getting there.” he mumbled, coiling himself into a loose pile of scales. He noticed vaguely that there were red stripes adorning his underbelly.

“I… I’m so sorry, Anthony. I truly didn’t mean to hurt you, I just wasn’t sure how to control it, and I was so furious over what seems like nothing, now. I’m so sorry my dear.” he sighed, blue gaze eventually meeting a golden eye.

“Ss’okay angel, I’m ssure you...I mean you had good reasson to… we’ll work on it.” the snake grumbled. Not-Michael perked up, a small smile on his face. Anthony decided then and there that he liked that smile.

“Angel?” he asked, wondering if that might have once been his name.

Anthony said nothing. He wasn’t entirely sure if that had once been some sort of pet name, or if it was poking fun at what seriously looked to be the man’s species. The only part he mentioned aloud were his musings on what exactly the blonde was, because he vaguely certain that wings and terrible light weren’t part of the average human package. The other thought it over, and decided to accept the theory as truth. So now he was an angel. How about that.

“What do you think,” he started contemplatively “of just calling me Angel for now?”

The black scaly head cocked to the side slightly, not unlike a dog.

“I sssupose that could work.” he agreed.

Angel smiled appreciatively. “Say Anthony, do you think you could possibly turn back now?”he queried, straightening and then immediately crouching back down to eye level with Anthony.

“It’s not that I have anything against your being a snake? But it really would be easier to sort through this mess if we’re both in the same form.” he paused, then added “and I’m pretty sure that I am unable to become a snake.”

If snakes could blink owlishly (or blink at all for that matter), then Anthony would have done so. Unfortunately the only thing his body could muster to convey his realization was his jaw hanging open. This gave him the gently surprised look of someone who’d just found out that ethereal and occult beings Make An Effort far more often than they would like to admit.

“You- you do know how to turn back,,, don’t you?”

He did not.

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #crowley #Aziraphale #ineffable husbands #amnesia fic #my writing #my fanfiction

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